


Watershed moments

by imperfectcircle



Series: Stories by theme: Romance [14]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Canon Queer Character, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Multi, OT3, Pining, Threesomes, also there's a dog, dc era, polyamorous pining, so much pining, trying and failing not to make it weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectcircle/pseuds/imperfectcircle
Summary: But what's Jon supposed to do? Not be absurdly hung up on the idea of him and Tommy railing Lovett and then holding him afterwards?





	Watershed moments

**Author's Note:**

> My favourite trope in this fandom is Favs and Tommy secretly pining after Lovett -- this fic owes a debt to the many great fics in this vein that have come before. 
> 
> Please keep it secret, keep it safe. Don't talk about this places people can google it, and please please don't bring it to the attention of anyone even vaguely linked to the people mentioned here.

They're at Tommy and Lovett's place, the three of them sprawled over the ancient couch (Jon and Tommy) and the less ancient but more stained recliner (Lovett), drinking beer and engaging with the football on a sliding scale.

At one end is Tommy, who's got most of his attention on the game. He's checking his email every couple of minutes, which is his version of slacking off, and every so often he grunts at a blatant pass interference.

At the other end of the scale is Lovett, who's sitting with one foot hooked under his thigh, because of course he is, his other foot swinging erratically as he fucks around on his phone with extreme prejudice. Whenever Tommy grunts, he looks up, makes a face at Jon like _can you believe what I put up with from you two?_

Jon is in between them, both figuratively and literally, with maybe a quarter of his attention on the game, a quarter on Lovett, and the rest on an email from his mom he's trying to reply to in a way that doesn't make him sound sad, overworked and lonely. Which he isn't. But his mom worries. 

And then out of nowhere, Lovett says, "Oh, hey, Tommy, did I tell you? I got you a dog." He pauses. "A part share in a dog. A dog derivative. Ooh, think of me as your _basset manager_."

Jon and Tommy both groan. 

"No? We'll workshop it." 

"The dog, Lovett?" Tommy prompts. 

"I told Mrs Mauritz you'd walk her dog, Hils," Lovett says breezily, like this is the sort of thing any normal person would volunteer their roommate for any day of the week. "Or run with Hils. She -- Hils, not Mrs Mauritz -- isn't getting enough exercise now that her -- Mrs Mauritz's, not Hils' -- grandson is out of town, and I thought to myself, who likes dogs, running, and helping out older-but-definitely-not-old ladies? Tommy Vietor, that's who. So really, I've done you a favor."

Really, Jon thinks, he has done Tommy a favor, but by putting it so obnoxiously, he allows Tommy to laugh, to say with a put-upon air, "I guess, if you've already told her I'm going to." 

"She gave me cookies," Lovett says cheerfully. "I didn't share them with you because Mrs Mauritz and I have a connection."

Tommy sighs in mock-irritation, but Jon can see the tiniest hint of a smile trying to escape. 

As far as Jon can tell, Mrs Mauritz is a tiny, acerbic Jewish retiree who saw Lovett ride by on his ridiculous electric scooter sometime last year and thought, _yes, that one, I will adopt him._ Jon can't fault her taste. Lovett doesn't mention her often, but the picture Jon's built is of ten pounds of matriarch in a five pound bag, who lured Lovett in with home cooking and soul-deep disapproval of his clothing choices. 

Jon raises his beer to Lovett, who scowls at him like _what, I'm being an asshole, don't ruin it,_ but Jon doesn't care. It's nice. It feels good that Lovett has found this new way to look out for Tommy. He raises his beer to the world, a generalized thank you for getting him here. 

Tommy grunts again at something onscreen. Jon watches the replay, grunts along with him at the utterly misguided no-call, and ignores the look he knows Lovett is giving them. 

Only, no, Lovett isn't giving them a look. Lovett is absorbed by something on his phone. He's got it tilted away from them, but his back's to the window, so Jon can see the tell-tale black, orange and blue of one of those hookup apps reflected in the dark glass. 

Jon is-- Not annoyed, that's too strong a word, but not thrilled by this turn of events. Lovett's judgement is part of the point of watching the game here -- yet another aspect of Jon and Tommy's lives that has reshaped itself to fit him. But instead of rolling his eyes or saying something caustic about unreconstructed masculinity, he's ignoring them for some stranger who's probably, Jon doesn't know, ten years older than his profile picture and into some weird shit he'll spring on Lovett halfway through their date. 

Which is fine. Not the surprise weird shit, that's not fine, and Jon and Tommy are sure to hear about it later, but the ignoring is fine. It's just a tiny blot on an otherwise perfect evening, that Lovett's attention has been distracted by some asshole who just sees him as an interchangeable piece of meat when Jon and Tommy are right here and waiting to be mocked for their neolithic sports rituals. 

He really should call his mom. 

On the TV, an AT&T ad plays. Tommy is mouthing along to words, something he only does when he's really tired. It feels briefly like they're back on the campaign trail, four of them to one shitty hotel room somewhere in South Carolina. Only back then Tommy would have punched Lovett in the throat given half a chance, and Jon wouldn't have batted an eye. Funny how things work out. 

#

Tuesday night, Tommy drags Jon to a crappy bar off Dupont for drinks with some guys from State. 

Jon's buzzed. It's been a long few weeks with no signs of slowing down, and while he likes Tommy and he likes his beer, the guys from State he can take or leave. His shoulders ache, there's a twinge in his knee he's ignoring, but he's okay, he thinks. He's working hard. Doing good. 

Tommy's laugh brings Jon back out of wherever his head's at. Nico-from-State is doing a weird and not good impression of Newt Gingrich. But he's putting his whole heart into it, and Jon can respect that. 

So Jon's kind of in the conversation but kind of not, a cold beer in one hand and his shoulder pressed against Tommy's in the crush of the booth, when he notices Lovett across the room from them, deep in conversation with a couple of guys Jon's never met before. He's about to try to get Lovett's attention, wave him over, when Tommy catches his arm, and ah, sure, he's got a point -- if Jon stops and thinks past that first moment of, _oh, hey, Lovett!_ he can see that oh, hey, Lovett is looking to get laid. 

He can't tell, though, which of the guys Lovett's into. Not that it's any of his business, but it bugs him that he can't get a read on it. The guys are both taller than Lovett, both pretty in that way Lovett likes, both paying him their full attention. Lovett's got his hand on one guy's arm, which would be conclusive, only he's laughing at something the other guy has said -- and Jon can tell from here Lovett didn't find it funny. They're not even that hot. Not up to Lovett's usual standard. 

Jon's not making it weird. He's not staring. Tommy's having an argument with Chuck-from-State about the planned expansion of the Eurozone, and Jon forces his thoughts back to that. Turns out Tommy is right and Chuck-from-State doesn't understand how government bonds work, so that was definitely worth showing up for, and Jon is maybe also keeping an eye on Lovett, just to make sure he's okay, that whichever guy he's not going home with isn't going to get mean or whatever. 

Not that that would happen. Probably. But guys can be assholes, sometimes, and Jon's just looking out for a friend. He'd do the same for Tommy, if Tommy did that kind of thing. The guys aren't that much bigger than Lovett, this isn't like he doesn't think Lovett is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, it's just. It's fine. 

He backs up three of Tommy's points in a row. Tommy's right about Greece and he's right about Germany and he's right about whatever the third thing was, totally, so if you think about it, Jon's earned it when lets his gaze drift for a moment to check in on Lovett. Not, to be clear, that Lovett needs checking in on. He's an adult. An adult who's wearing his best "I'm about to get laid" grin, the one that makes Jon want to, anyway, that's not the point, the point is that Jon isn't making it weird. 

Chuck-from-State goes to the bathroom, and Tommy clinks his half-full glass against Jon's. "Do you think he knows Switzerland isn't in the EU?" 

It's not kind to laugh, but Tommy's shoulder is shaking against his and Jon can't help himself, not when Tommy's so proud of such a mediocre burn. 

Across the room from them, Lovett looks set to leave. Jon isn't looking, but he isn't not-looking -- he's still curious which guy Lovett's going to pick, still has a little nagging irritation that he can't tell. 

And then, Jon realizes that no, Lovett is leaving with _both_ those guys. Which is fine. Which is great. It's very much not Jon's business, and as Lovett's totally supportive, essentially heterosexual friend who wants only happiness for everyone involved, Jon is delighted for them. That's a great solution. No one goes home disappointed. Though if he'd known that was what Lovett wanted, he'd--

Which is where normally it would stop, a cut-off half thought no one needs to be having, only Tommy's right there, Tommy's noticed the same thing Jon's noticed, and in Jon's efforts not to stare at Lovett he ends up looking directly at Tommy. Tommy, who's flushing like _he's_ the one who's been caught out thinking something he shouldn't be thinking. 

Which. 

Huh. 

And that -- on a Tuesday night in a crappy bar off Dupont while Chuck-from-State is in the bathroom -- is where it starts. 

Nine times out of ten Jon's creepy mind meld (or whatever Lovett's calling it this week) with Tommy is great, they get each other, they're on the same page. This falls into that other one time out of ten, because apparently all it takes is one accidental "oh shit, he's hot" moment of eye contact about their mutually off-limits friend and colleague and suddenly neither of them can stop thinking about it. 

They're supposed to be professionals. They're supposed to be great at not thinking about things. Amazing at it. They should be out there winning awards for not thinking about the fact that Lovett took home two -- two! -- guys to push him around and hold him down and give it to him hard, or, worse, give it to him gently, make him beg for it, give him almost but not quite enough until he's desperate for it, until he can't stop the soft, half-pained sounds they force from him as they both fuck into him, or maybe one of them -- Chad, why not, they're probably called Chad and fucking, Jon doesn't know, Brad -- maybe he got Chad to fuck his mouth and Brad to eat him out and neither of them let him get a hand on his dick, didn't let him come until, fuck, the point is they should be winning awards for not thinking about that stuff, but instead Tommy gets all squirrelly and weird and then Jon can't stop thinking about what Tommy is thinking about that's making him get squirrelly and weird and then they're doing shots on Tommy's couch at 9pm. For all they know, this could be the couch where this whole damned problem started, maybe, with Lovett arranging hookups on his phone instead of paying attention to Jon and Tommy like he should have been, god knows they pay enough attention to him, they're paying attention to him right now and he's not even here. 

"Do you think--?" Tommy asks his shot glass. 

"Yeah." Yeah. Jon does think. Jon thinks a week ago he could hang out with Tommy and they'd talk about baseball or politics or their friends, which, fine, normally ended up meaning Lovett, without having to drink themselves into a stupor to cope with the horny fantasy threesome elephant Lovett has pushed into the room and then abandoned for them to look after while he goes and fucks Chad and Brad and god knows who else. 

Tommy, because he is the best, gets this. "Yeah," he says, which Jon can tell means, I'm sorry I texted you at 3am last night to ask if you thought Lovett looked tired, but I'm not that sorry, because you texted me back immediately to say you thought he winced when he sat down yesterday morning, you asshole.

Jon downs the last of the vodka. He's earned it. He's the one who had to cope with Tommy coming up to him three days ago -- at work, where they work, where important and serious fate of the world things happen on a daily basis, that work, there -- and saying, quiet enough only Jon could hear, "I bet they didn't take care of him afterwards," and then walking off to some important national security meeting like that was a thing people just said to each other. At work. In the White House. Where they work. 

Fuck Tommy, is Jon's point. 

"He-ey," Tommy says, half protest, half acknowledgement. "I used to be able to think about other things. All the time. I was good at it."

Jon raises his glass to that. "We both were."

"But then fucking Chad and Brad," Tommy says. "They weren't even that good looking. We're hot. Right? Hotter than them. You are, and L- and people wouldn't make jokes about me being hot if they didn't mean it at least a bit."

"You're hot," Jon says firmly. "We're way hotter than Chad and fucking Brad. They probably have really ugly dicks."

It's not that Jon didn't know he wasn't entirely 100% straight. He knew. But he's always been good at ignoring things, at least until this week, the week of Chad and Brad, the week of his and Tommy's mutually assured destruction, so until this week, Jon had never even thought about the relative attractiveness of dicks. But now he knows, absolutely, with the certainty of too much vodka and way, way too much sexual obsession running through him, that he and Tommy have good looking dicks and Chad and Brad do not.

"Really ugly dicks," Tommy agrees. He reaches over for the vodka bottle they've left on the table and stares at it like he can't remember how it got empty. 

It got empty because three days ago Tommy brought up post-sex Lovett in the White House and now he's paying for it. That's justice. Jon is a vigilante. 

Tommy puts down the empty bottle. "Do you think they fed them to him? Chad and Brad," he clarifies, as if Jon doesn't know exactly, viscerally what he means, "do you think they put their dicks in his mouth. Both of them. Made him take it. Choked him on their ugly dicks."

Jon is uncomfortably hard. He doesn't need to look at Tommy to know that he is, too. 

"He sounded fine," Jon says after a long, long pause. "Not like he'd been." Not like he'd been choking on Chad and Brad's dicks when he could have been choking on Jon and Tommy's. Not like his mouth could have been stretched wide like something out of porn only better because it would have been right there in front of them for Jon to reach out and touch, to trace with one finger where Lovett's lip was tight against his dick, too sloppy to hold them both fully, spit and precum spilling down his chin. 

"We'd be good to him," Tommy says. There's a whine in his voice, like he thinks that of all people in the world, Jon wouldn't believe him. 

Jon knows they'd be good to Lovett. Jon knows they'd take care of him, before, during and after. Jon knows that if Lovett trusted them, if Lovett wanted them, they would do anything for him. They'd--

"What does he want?" He doesn't care what he sounds like. Desperate, probably. Frustrated. Hurt. Tommy's seen him at worse than this. "We could--" He doesn't know. "Whatever."

They could. Whatever Lovett wanted, they could be into it, even if a week ago Jon had barely acknowledged there was an it to be into. They could go slow if he wanted, treat him gently, take care of him, make him feel valued, cared for, precious. They could do that. Or they could get him out of his head, fuck him so hard and so filthy he forgets how to do anything but take it, forgets to joke or complain or think or do anything but feel Tommy's cock in his ass and Jon's cock in his mouth and Jon's hands holding his head and Tommy's hands gripping his hips as they thrust into him, hard and sure, sliding home. They could hold him up against a wall and blow him, Jon could hold him down while Tommy came on his face, they could hold him so tight afterwards he never doubted for a moment he was meant to be there, hot and gorgeous and frustrating as hell and there. With them. Fuck. 

"I think," Jon tells his empty hands, "this is a thing."

Tommy snorts a laugh. Not amused, but fond. Resigned. "You think?" 

#

It was a nice thought, that Tommy would run with Hils the dog every morning, get some quality dog and exercise time in each day before the next crisis hits, but it's not sustainable. Sometimes the crisis has hit before Tommy's alarm goes; sometimes he's pulling an all-nighter when the last crisis won't stop hitting. The first time it happens, Jon finds out at 8:43am when Lovett shows up looking even more of a mess than usual. 

"Tommy had to do a thing," Lovett says, as if that's an explanation. Tommy has to do things all the fucking time, and never before has that stopped Lovett acting as if mornings are optional. 

Jon just looks at him. He's got a meeting in fifteen about tweaking the White House's agenda in line with the latest developments on Dodd-Frank. It's a compromise, but it's a good compromise, and Jon's cautiously hopeful that this could be a real win for everyone. 

"I don't know what kind of thing," Lovett says. He puts a venti hazelnut latte on Jon's desk with a scowl, like he's daring Jon to mention it. "If we were all going to die, someone would have told you, and then you'd be dripping with guilt that you're going off to the big friendly bunker to eat rat canapés with Justice Ginsberg while the rest of us are stuck up here dying of radiation poisoning or genetically engineered anthrax bees or whatever."

"Anthrax bees?" Jon isn't entirely sure what's going on with Lovett's hair under the bright pink baseball cap he's been wearing all this week. Probably something horrific, given the angles at which curls are poking out, but he knows better than to say anything. He wishes he knew better than to stare, too. If Tommy were here, it's not like he'd be able to cope any better, but at least they'd both be in the same terrible, terrible boat. 

"I don't know. But you look exactly as disgustingly put together as normal, so I'm guessing the world is safe for another day." 

"Right. Not that I'm not delighted, but why are you here on time?"

Lovett flops down in his chair dramatically. He takes a long swig of his coffee before answering. Jon doesn't look at the line of his throat, because Jon has work to do and Jon is a serious professional.

"I went for a run with Hils this morning. Turns out when you get Tommy a part share in a dog, he gets all responsible about it. Who could have predicted?"

Jon laughs obligingly. "So he made you do it?"

"So he made me do it."

Jon attempts a sympathetic grimace. 

"Yeah, laugh it up. You didn't wake up to Tommy lurking over you apologetically yet determinedly, like a, a--" He holds up a hand. "I'll get there. It's early."

Jon wants to say Lovett should call him next time, but he's not sure if that's weird. It wouldn't have been weird before. Would it? Fuck. 6-11am are his Lovett-free hours, where he can think for whole minutes at a time like a normal adult human. He was managing some coherent ideas about financial reform just minutes ago. And now geopolitical crises and Hils the dog have conspired to fuck even that up for him. 

"I told him to call you," Lovett says, oblivious to Jon's suffering, "but he just said some very hurtful things about our relative early morning contributions to the job, and then it all devolved into threats and name calling."

Jon can see it clearly. Lovett yelling insults from under his covers while Tommy stands at the doorway laughing and sticking to his not unreasonable dog walking demands. He probably picked some of Lovett's crap off the floor while he was at it. 

There's nothing distracting about the image of a rumpled, sleep-softened Lovett berating Tommy. If he tells himself this firmly enough, he may even start to believe it. 

"I'm not walking your neighbor’s dog," Jon says. 

Lovett glares at him across their desks. "Please. You wish you could walk Hillary Dogham Clinton. But she's not to be handed round like some cheap floozy. She's a lady."

It's the first time Jon's heard Hils' full name. "Tell me that's not--"

"Mrs Mauritz voted for her in the primary. We're soulmates. We both love brilliant politicians, dogs, and watching Tommy Vietor work up a sweat."

It's an improvement, Jon guesses, on Lovett's first few months on the job, where he veered between acting like his work on the Clinton campaign was a dirty secret and defiantly shoving it in people's faces. 

"Sounds like you and Mrs Mauritz are perfect for each other."

"She's going to set me up with her grandson when he comes back into town." Lovett's tone is half joking, half something else. "Apparently he's very handsome and he appreciates a good sense of humor. And Mrs Mauritz was sure to tell me that he's bisexual just like that lovely man from that show about the lawyer with the no-good husband."

Jon does not instantly hate Mrs Mauritz's bisexual grandson, because that would be an extreme and deeply embarrassing reaction. 

Instead, he and his laptop and his coffee go to a meeting about vitally important legislation to fix the banks and stabilize the economy, and he only texts Tommy once about Lovett's hair. 

After the meeting, Tommy hasn't texted him back, but there's a message from Lovett: 

_Still can't think of anything apologetic but determined_  
_It's going to bug me all day_  
_Duck Tommy is my point_  
_*fuck_

#

Lovett can tell something's going on. Jon doesn't think he's guessed what, because how could he, but it's almost worse that he hasn't -- he flips on a dime between hurt that they're leaving him out of something and genuine, sweet concern that they're not okay. 

Jon can take Lovett being mad at him, but not Lovett withdrawing, unsure of his welcome, and definitely not Lovett casually deflecting all but the most important demands on Jon's time just so Jon has a moment to breathe. 

When Lovett's mad at them, he rants for a while, Jon laughs and says something vaguely appeasing, Tommy laughs and feeds him a good straight line, and by the end of the rant everything's fine again, all is forgiven however much Lovett claims "don't think you can silence me" or "I'm warning you, I can bear a grudge for years." But when Lovett's hurt, genuinely hurt, it can fester like nothing else. And when he's concerned, when he shoots these tiny little glances at Jon when he thinks Jon's not looking, when he restocks his and Tommy's fridge with the beer Jon and Tommy drink and he hates, when he hustles Tommy home at a reasonable hour or makes Jon put his phone down for five fucking minutes, come on, you're not _that_ important -- when he does that, Jon feels like he's about to lose his goddamn mind. 

Lovett's reaction given the available evidence is reasonable, but at the same time it feels desperately unreasonable. It's not like Jon meant to get like this. Really, when you think about it, it's still Lovett's fault for going home with Chad and Brad in the first place, but also not, because even thinking that makes Jon feel flushed and guilty. Lovett didn't ask for this, Lovett was just trying to live his life and Jon and Tommy are the ones who have gone and made it so fucking weird, and now Lovett's totally justifiably upset that his so-called friends are being secretive assholes but what's Jon supposed to say? Sorry, didn't meant to make you uncomfortable by ignoring you, we've just been fantasizing about how we'd give it to you if you had any interest all in us, your "disgustingly straight and to be honest slightly plasticky looking no one needs to be that handsome" friends you make jokes about but never look at the way we saw you looking at Chad and Brad and their ugly dicks. 

And that's the thing. They know Lovett well enough to know how he looks at the men he wants to fuck. 

There was Nathan from DHHS who smiled like he was auditioning for an informercial about sit-down showers. Lovett went all glow-y around him, sparkling and funny but without the sharp edges he saved for people who actually mattered, wearing that fuck-me expression that Tommy had awkwardly tried to tease Lovett about precisely once before Lovett had just looked at Tommy and flatly said, "Handsome straight boys don't get to make jokes about their homely gay friends' cocksucking mouths," and that had been that, but afterwards Tommy and Jon had both kind of hated Nathan from DHHS a little for making it weird, which in retrospect might have been a clue. 

There was Kyle from the Treasury who didn't really work at the Treasury but it was easier than remembering how he actually fit into the mess of contractors who floated in and out of the White House. Kyle had been funny, which was great right up until Lovett stopped making so many jokes around him, instead setting him up for punchlines that were way less funny when Kyle was delivering them with his smug salmon pink shirts and his shiny hair. Which. Again. In retrospect. Maybe another clue. 

But the point is not that Jon and Tommy have low-key hated every single man Lovett has ever slept with, because that's not the kind of revelation Jon wants or needs to be having right now. The point is that they know what Lovett looks like when he wants to fuck Nathan or Kyle or Chad or Brad or whoever, and it's not what Lovett looks like around them. They'd have noticed. Lovett around them is funny when he wants to be, loud and demanding when he wants to be, surprisingly thoughtful when he thinks no one is paying attention and prickly as hell when he thinks he's been caught caring. He doesn't deliberately soften himself. He doesn't step back and let them take his punchlines. And he certainly doesn't bring out his cocksucking mouth. 

"We are disgusting people and we should be ashamed of ourselves," Jon tells Tommy. 

Tommy doesn't look up from his phone. "Just let me send this email." 

Jon guesses Tommy can do his job if he wants. Even if it is 11:30pm and they're on opposite ends of Jon's couch pretending to watch season 4 of The Wire for the second time (Jon) and fourth time (Tommy). 

Twenty minutes later, Jon is trying to find the clean energy briefing Dan sent him last week when he feels Tommy looking at him. On screen, Bunny Colvin is trying to make the world a better place. Jon feels for him. 

"I'm not arguing," Tommy says. "But why specifically?"

Jon meets his eyes. Why specifically, Tommy wants to know, are they disgusting people who should be ashamed of themselves? Well, luckily for Tommy, Jon has a whole fucking thesis on this. "Remember Nathan?"

"That asshole from DHHS who didn't like Lovett's impressions?"

"Remember Kyle?"

"The one with the ugly shirts who couldn't get a real job?" 

Jon lets them both pause for a moment of hating Kyle, then bites the bullet. "He never looks at us the way he looked at them." He knows he sounds sad about it. Pathetic. But what's he supposed to do? Not be absurdly hung up on the idea of him and Tommy railing Lovett and then holding him afterwards? 

Tommy is Jon's absolute best friend in the world. It seems childish to have best friends, like something he should have left behind in grade school, but there's no other word for Tommy, the other half of his weirdly fucked up brain, a man so full of loyalty for everyone but himself, who'd break himself open to make the world a better place. Tommy is Jon's best friend, and so when he sits up straight and pauses the DVD on a frame of the kids laughing, Jon pays attention. 

"He could look at us like that." 

Tommy doesn't even look attractive right then. He's frowning like he's halfway between constipated and facing the press corps, and he's got a red line running along his cheek from where he's been leaning against the seam of a couch cushion. The light from the TV makes him look even more tired and run down than he undoubtedly is. But Jon's fucked up brain has never run to schedule, and so it's now, right now, five to midnight on a weeknight, that he realizes Tommy Vietor is one of the hottest people he's ever met. 

The knowledge runs through him, sharp and flame-bright, a watershed moment in his previously Lovett-driven bisexual awakening. The man he's been daydreaming about fucking Lovett with for the last twelve days? Jon is also attracted to him. 

Jon is a fucking idiot. 

"He could look at us like that," Tommy says again. His blush has gone from pink to red. "We could woo him."

"Woo him," Jon mouths silently. Only Tommy. 

"Be nice to him. Make it clear that we're--" Tommy stops. 

If Jon were a braver person, this would be where he'd clarify. What are they, exactly? Interested in Lovett, definitely. Sexually, for sure. Romantically? Jon is. Jon right now wants to wine and dine Lovett and Tommy and bring them back to his place and treat them right and make them breakfast in the morning. He wants him and Lovett to be the first people Tommy looks to with his bright eyes and brilliant ideas; he wants him and Tommy to be the first people Lovett turns to for a laugh. He wants to be the only person to see Lovett and Tommy together, soft and vulnerable, safe in his bed where they can let their guards down. 

"Jon," Tommy says softly. He's got that look on his face, like he can see right into Jon's soul. Like he's not judging, but he wants to get it right. "How _do_ you feel about Lovett?"

And Jon wants to laugh, because two weeks ago that wouldn't even have been a question and a day ago he would have been able to answer it, but now he's realized this isn't just a thing he and Tommy have for Lovett, this is a thing he has for Tommy, a thing he has for Lovett, _and_ a thing he has for Tommy and Lovett, and while he could maybe tell Tommy how he feels about Lovett, he can't make himself tell the whole truth, and telling a fraction of it would be worse than lying. 

He wants to kiss the concern from Tommy's face, replace it with a smile just for him. 

He is so fucked. 

"Can we-- Can I table that? For now?" Jon asks. It's still a lie by implication -- he knows what Tommy will read into it -- but it's the best he's got. 

He's such an idiot. Being attracted to Tommy should have been awesome. It should have meant jerking each other off while they talked about how good they'd be to Lovett in bed. Tommy could have held him down and pretended he was Lovett and he could have struggled just enough that Tommy felt it and then gone compliant and sweet like he imagines Lovett can get when he really wants it, when he's so desperate for it he forgets to hide himself. But no, not Jon fucking fuck up Favreau, can't even manage being attracted to men right, has to go straight from "huh, Tommy's hot" to "oh no, feelings," do not pass Go, do not collect a handjob. 

And Tommy, of course, is awesome about it because Tommy is awesome about everything that doesn't involve looking after himself or realizing he's one of the best people on the planet, so Tommy just shrugs like Jon isn't having a crisis of something and unpauses the DVD. 

#

_fAVS your boy is trying to make me walk his dog_  
_FAVS_  
_This is homophobia_  
_FAVS I KNOW YOURE AWAKE_

Jon huffs a laugh. _I was in the shower,_ he types back. It's on their group text chain, but Tommy hasn't responded yet. 

_Hills and I are ignoring you_  
_*Hils_  
_Autocorrect is ALSO homophobia_

Three dots appear. Tommy is typing. Jon starts to brush his teeth. 

The three dots disappear. Off the group chain, Tommy texts just to Jon, _He offered to blow me if I'd walk the dog today_

Jon spits, not entirely voluntarily. 

Trying to maintain the two conversations at the same time is a recipe for disaster, but this is his life now, so. 

To Tommy, he sends, _...the fuck?_

To the group, he sends, _I'll meet you at the SB on 16th in 20._

 _Maybe we don't want to meet you,_ Lovett replies. _You're buying_

Tommy's reply takes a little longer:

_His fucking mouth_  
_Fuck_  
_I should have said yes_  
_Seen what he'd do_  
_He could have_  
_I should have fucked his mouth and sent him on to you_

Jon puts his phone down, grips the sides of the sink as he takes one deep breath after another. They're going to kill him. He rests his head against the cool glass of the mirror and tries not to think about Lovett's mouth, spit-slick and used, still tasting of Tommy, fuck, he can't do this, this isn't okay, they need to stop this, he can't stand here with his towel wrapped around his waist thinking about Tommy fucking Lovett's mouth gently at first, then harder, just forceful enough, and then Jon doing the same himself, cradling Lovett's head as he thrusts into the same hot warmth, feeling Lovett's tongue against his dick exactly the same as Tommy felt it minutes before.

He jerks himself off quickly and furiously, then texts Tommy with the cum still wet on his hand: _You should have._

Over on the group chain, Lovett has sent them a picture of Hils pissing against a lamppost. 

There are probably 20 Starbuckses the length of 16th, but Lovett is waiting at the right one when Jon shows up. Hils is gazing up at Lovett adoringly, her tail thumping against a nearby chair leg. 

This is the first time Jon has actually met the famous Hils. She's gorgeous -- some sort of retriever spaniel cross, with dark, soulful eyes and ridiculously floppy ears. Jon drops down to great her properly, scratching behind her ears as she attempts to get slobber on every part of his face. 

"God, do you have to be so photogenic?" Despite his complaint, Lovett isn't actually looking at them -- his gaze is slightly off to the side, like he's bored or embarrassed by Jon's antics. 

Perversely, it just makes Jon want his attention more. He stretches at he stands, letting his shirt ride up, and notes with shameful glee Lovett's gaze skitter off his waist. 

"Everything about you is annoying," Lovett says. "Favs, this is Hils. Hils, this is Favs. Hils is the light of Tommy's life and the bane of my existence, and yet somehow I'm the one out here walking her at --" He makes a show of looking at his phone. "-- eight in the morning. I don't get up this early for my _mom_ , what the fuck."

"I'm sure Mrs Mauritz appreciates it." Jon doesn't give a shit about Mrs Mauritz, but it's something to say that isn't, _did you really offer to blow Tommy if he would walk Hils this morning, and did you mean it, and what about me?_

"Mrs Mauritz is extremely disappointed every time I show up instead of actual greek god Tommy Vietor. She says I may be good enough for her grandson, but she's paid her taxes and shoveled her sidewalk for 80 years, and she deserves some quality eye candy in return." Lovett shrugs like he hasn't costarred in all of Jon's sexual fantasies for the last two weeks. "Next time you should go, give her something for all that civic responsibility."

Jon tries to say he wouldn't mind helping out. Hils, who is happily alternating between licking his hand and graciously allowing him to pet her, seems like a great addition to his morning routine. But he can't think of a way to phrase it that won't sound weird, so instead he laughs a little helplessly and takes a sip of the coffee Lovett must have handed to him in between all the complaining. 

"Come on," Lovett says. "Let's go return her to Mrs Mauritz's loving embrace. You can smile at her and add ten years to her life."

Jon is used to being hustled places by Lovett, but not this early in the morning. He kind of blinks a couple of times and they're outside what must be Mrs Mauritz's house, a neatly kept building off on a side street next to Lovett and Tommy's place. He thinks Lovett has been talking about something along the way, but he has no idea what -- though Lovett's not glaring at him, so he must have managed the right noises at appropriate intervals while his brain was 70% composing answers to emails to Dan about asset-backed securitization and 30% thinking about sending Lovett back to Tommy once Jon had fucked his mouth too, how Tommy would touch Lovett's mouth and know they'd both been inside it. 

Mrs Mauritz is tiny with huge hair and huge glasses, a force of nature in a garish purple jacket. She smells very strongly, Jon realizes after a confusing few seconds, of both lavender and pot. 

"You must be the other Jon," she says, dragging him down to her level to kiss on both cheeks. "You're every bit as handsome as I was led to believe. I've already promised my David to Jon, but my great-niece Erin likes men and I'm sure her brother is at least a little flexible." 

Lovett's delight is coming off him in waves. 

"I can't believe you're trying to fob Kurt off on Jon! Genius speechwriter with the face of a really hot angel, and you're offering him a man you once called the Jewish Ned Flanders but without the charm?"

Jon laughs to cover his embarrassment. It doesn't work. 

"At least he's Jewish," Mrs Mauritz says, which makes Lovett choke on a laugh of his own. 

"Anyway, Jon likes women," Lovett says, "so Erin better be back from Paris soon."

Mrs Mauritz takes her phone out of her pocket, dislodging several tissues and a baggie of weed, and snaps a picture of Jon before he's processed what's happening. "She'll be on the first flight home."

Lovett and Mrs Mauritz banter back and forth for a few more minutes before she shoos them off. Jon tries to interrupt precisely once -- after that complete failure, he sticks to petting Hils and trying not to blush too fiercely. All in all, it's a good start to the day. 

#

Two days, maybe three, after Mrs Mauritz, and Jon and Lovett are burning whatever comes after midnight oil trying to get something done thanks to a news cycle that won't stop cycling. They need to edit the whole D-section of tomorrow's -- today's, now -- speech in response to some Wall Street bullshit. This would be hard enough without Jon's computer having frozen up earlier and lost him half an hour's work that it had then taken him another hour to painfully reconstruct. 

Someone knocks twice on the doorframe of the open door. Jon looks up to see Lovett asleep on his desk because of course he is -- Lovett's tiny snores are like background noise to him these days, and he won't snore properly until his head tips back to-- Ah, right, there it is. Which is the point when Jon notices Tommy watching Lovett with this soft, quiet, deeply familiar expression and he realizes three things at once: one, Tommy is in love with Lovett; two, the only other person Tommy looks at like that is Jon; three, Jon is a fucking idiot. 

"I--" Jon says, willing himself to be brave, but also understanding at long last that he doesn't have to be brave, that there's nothing about this moment that can go wrong, here in the safety of these four walls with Tommy looking from Lovett to Jon like his heart is too full to contain all his dumb feelings. 

"I--" Jon starts again. "Both of you."

Tommy takes a moment to get it, because Jon isn't exactly using his words to full effect right now, but he does get it, because he's Tommy, and he's understood more from less when it came to Jon. His face breaks out into a broad, happy smile too big for his features, a smile Jon knows from the inside from November 4 2008, January 20 2009, and today, right now, right here. 

"I," Tommy says, "both of you. Obviously."

"Obviously," Jon says, because nothing else can contain what he feels right now, his heart hammering in his chest with a joyful mix of emotions too strong to name. 

They just grin at each other like idiots. Jon feels like he should do something -- get up from behind his desk and sweep Tommy into a kiss? throw a parade? wake Lovett up and tell him-- tell him--

They're still grinning at each other. Jon mouths, "What the fuck?"

Tommy widens his eyes in agreement. He's bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, the movement incongruous in his dour grey suit and the too-bright lights of the White House late at night. It's cute. 

Seriously, though. What the fuck? 

"You're being weird," Lovett mumbles into his elbow. "Stop being weird and let me sleep."

Lovett has slept through baseball games, heated arguments about single-payer healthcare, and literal fireworks before now. But in that moment, Jon can honestly believe his and Tommy's elation was strong enough, loud enough to wake the dead. He's crackling with it, the giddy sense that he and Tommy can do anything, can take on the world and win, can sure as fuck woo Lovett until he sees what's right in front of him. Anything. 

"You'll fuck up your back," Tommy says, because apparently he can form whole sentences now that have nothing to do with the everything going on in Jon's chest. "Let's get you home."

It's 50:50 whether Lovett will insist he's awake, has been awake the whole time, fuck you, he does some of his best thinking like this, you wouldn't understand creative genius Tommy, when he said he to let him sleep just now it was a _metaphor_ , it was synec-fucking-doche, you like that? that's a term of art, or whether he'll acquiesce, sleepy-pliant enough to let someone else take the reins. 

For a moment, Lovett's brow scrunches suspiciously, making him look unguarded in a way that goes straight to Jon's heart, but then it smoothes out, ready and willing to accept the attention that is after all his due. 

Lovett lets them manhandle him upright, tired and stubborn enough to make them do the work. Jon has his hand at Lovett's elbow, Tommy has one on Lovett's back, the two of them not looking at each other but solid at Lovett's sides. The fabric of Lovett's long-sleeved tee is soft under Jon's hand. He can't tell if he's imagining the warmth he feels through it. 

It would be so easy to tip Lovett's head back, to press him against Tommy and kiss him awake, to feel him go from soft to suspicious to -- maybe -- soft again, willing and open. Tommy can hold him in place while Jon kisses his mouth, his neck, his--

"Right, that's enough, I am actually a functioning adult, you know," Lovett is saying, a switch flipped while Jon was too busy being weird to pay attention. "I can brush my own teeth and everything." He shakes off their hands as if they're nothing, just minor irritations, and vaguely moves some of the garbage on his desk into a pile. 

"That's certainly the desk of an adult," Tommy says. He picks an empty can from Lovett's desk, makes to throw it in the trash before Lovett catches his hand, just briefly, then pulls away. 

"I'm saving that." The rebuke is snippy, all traces of sleep gone. "You wouldn't understand." 

"Creative genius," Tommy says. "I know."

Tommy is absolutely the MVP in this slow motion whatever it is happening to them right now. Tommy is acting normal, huffing quiet laughter at the I'm-funny-right?-tell-me-I'm-funny cadence of Lovett's voice, teasing Lovett about his desk like nothing's changed. 

Jon is a disaster, and any minute now-- 

Right on cue, Lovett turns to squint at him. "What's your face doing?"

Jon has no idea what his face is doing. 

"That's not the face of a man trying to tell Wall Street to go fuck itself. Those aren't the deep brown eyes of fiscal responsibility in a depressed economy. Did you--? You can't have gotten laid. I'd know if you'd gotten laid." Lovett's building up steam. "Unless you and our other handsome hunk of Boston beefcake --" 

He's joking. It's a joke. It's a I'm-not-attracted-to-you-so-I-can-joke-about-it joke, honed by years of whatever Lovett thinks he has to do to exist in this world, and, abruptly, Jon can't stand it. Can't stand Lovett to make a joke out of this moment, can't stand to deny another second of this what the fuck couple of weeks that have rearranged Jon's entire brain. 

"Tommy," Jon says. "Get the door."

Tommy gets the door. 

"Wait, what is this, you can't beat me up for calling you a beefcake, you work for Obama." 

Lovett continues in that vein while Jon considers. What he _wants_ to do is grab Lovett and kiss him, pull Tommy towards them so Tommy can kiss his neck while Jon kisses his mouth and they bracket him between them, the heat of Lovett's body real and solid against them. 

He looks helplessly at Tommy. 

"It's your play," Tommy says. 

Tommy is the worst. Jon kisses him instead. 

Kissing Tommy feels like coming home. Like laughter and exhaustion and hope and acceptance, all in the slide of their lips and the way Tommy meets him, calm and sure, ready and eager. It's also, to be clear, really fucking hot. Tommy is really fucking hot. Jon is flushed all over, pinpricks of desire across his skin, heat already pooling in his belly. Tommy's holding him now, holding Jon, like that's a thing they do, like that's a thing they can do now, his hands trembling at Jon's waist, and Jon doesn't know whether he wants to shove Tommy against a wall or let Tommy bend him over a desk, but he knows he _wants_.

They break apart. Tommy's mouth is half-open. He's breathing hard. Jon kind of wants to fuck his face and kind of wants to hug him. 

Lovett looks -- he looks raw. Jon can't read his face, but he looks like there's a lot going on there, not all of it good. 

It takes Lovett a moment to process that Jon and Tommy have turned to him. 

"Give me--" He holds up a hand. "I just need a moment."

And there, right in front of them, he packs his emotions away. Between one breath and the next he's put a wall up, with everything real inside and Jon and Tommy on the outside. Jon hates it. 

"On the assumption this isn't a cruel and tasteless joke," Lovett says. His voice is warm, but not real-warm, not Lovett-warm. He sounds like he's talking to someone else. Someone not them. "Thank you for trusting me with this. And if this is new, then welcome to the wonderful world of homo -- or bi? -- sexuality. It's great. You're going to love it." 

"It's kind of new," Tommy says. There goes Tommy again, just making words come out of his mouth like it's a thing they do on a daily basis. His mouth quirks. "Do you get a toaster?"

Lovett smiles, but it's the same as the warmth in his voice -- good enough for other people, but not real, not complicated and messy and brilliant. Just a smile. "There you go, this is why you're my favorite. You're making gay jokes, but they're not good gay jokes. I can still mentor you."

Jon absolutely doesn't make a quiet, hurt sound. That would be embarrassing. 

"You're my favorite too," Lovett says quietly. "Fine work landing Vietor. He's a catch." 

Lovett is drawing back from them, physically as well as everything else. The office isn't big enough to put real space between them, but he's stepped back, has his arms crossed over his chest. 

Jon's eyes flick to Tommy's lips. 

This wasn't supposed to make Lovett back away. It was supposed to show Lovett what Jon can't make himself say. To let Lovett see that they're an option, at least. That Lovett _can_ think about them like that, if he wants to. That they'll be there, if he decides, maybe, he's not as not-attracted to them as he first thought. 

"We should celebrate!" Lovett is still talking. "Not tonight, it's late and Jon still has to spank those Wall Street fat cats into submission, but Saturday? We can go to Nellie's and feel ancient, and if you're not, if you don't want people to know, we can just say you're there for me, two supportive bros supporting their much gayer and much, much devastatingly attractive-er bro. Or are you telling people? Whatever you choose is-- Look, I want you to understand that normally I am way better at being a supportive gay Yoda, I have a whole spiel about the epistemology of the closet, it's very moving and inspirational, it's just you've caught me off guard here. Thrown me for a loop. I am surprised. But, and this is important, also supportive."

"Thank you," Tommy says with his words that he keeps on using like some kind of word-speaking-out-loud savant. Jon is acutely aware he hasn't said anything since he told Tommy to get the door approximately ten million years ago. 

Jon is maybe freaking out a bit. 

He opens his mouth. "I'm maybe freaking out a bit." Shit. Not those words. Other words. Better words. 

And just like that, Lovett's face softens, the wall coming down as quickly as it went up, behind it only compassion. "Jon," he says. "It really is okay. I know it feels huge right now, and it is, it's important, but you can do this. When have you ever been anything less than amazing at anything you cared about? 

Lovett is smiling at him. It's gentle and a little worried. 

"You're going to be so good at dating Tommy, I'll be promoted from gay Yoda to gay, I don't know, who's really good at mentoring? Gay Super Yoda. Gay Dan Pfeiffer."

Jon would really like to stop feeling this many feelings all at once. The calm, certain happiness from earlier has vanished, replaced with a roiling mess. 

What he wants to say is, _look, Lovett, this is ridiculous, please come to bed with us._ What he actually says is, "Tommy?" and then Tommy's by his side but Lovett is still too far away and Jon is exhausted and it's been a very long two weeks and--

"Lovett," he hears himself say. "I. We. Both of us. We both have a thing." He stops. Takes a breath. "For you. We both have a thing for you. And I know you're not, we're not your type, or whatever, but if you wanted. Ever. Not that you have to, it's not, we're not expecting anything from you, but. It's important that you know. We're an option." He's got his eyes closed. When did he close his eyes? "Or," he makes himself say. "If you just want Tommy, that's, I'm not going to make it weird." He doesn't want that to be a lie, which must count for something.

Any moment now, he's going to open his eyes again. Tommy will be smiling at Lovett, and Lovett will be smiling at Tommy, and Jon will go home alone and drink until he can't remember the feel of Tommy's lips against his only he can't because of Wall Street. Fucking Wall Street. 

Jon opens his eyes. 

Tommy is looking at Lovett. Lovett is looking at Tommy. But not like two men who are about to walk off into the sunset together. Tommy is frowning, some mixture of hurt and confusion playing out. And Lovett is. Well. Jon has no idea. 

"Jon." Lovett steps forward and hugs him. Jon doesn't understand what kind of hug this is. Lovett doesn't hug, not normally, and he definitely doesn't hug like this, putting his whole body into it, wrapping Jon up like he's something fragile, precious. 

"It really is hard on you, isn't it?" Lovett is saying. "Being so handsome and earnest and good at things." His voice is kind. "You're like a walking Nicholas Sparks novel, and the rest of us are just out here just trying to get by." He feels so solid, so real. Not like the fantasy Lovetts Jon has torturing himself with, willing and sensual but only a fraction of the complex messy whole that makes up the actual Lovett. "Not Tommy, obviously. Tommy's a 500 page Dostoevsky with footnotes. But the rest of us."

Jon's arms have come up around Lovett, but he's not holding him, he's holding onto him, trying not to get swept away. 

Lovett's rubbing small, comforting circles on Jon's back. Jon didn't know he knew how to do that. 

"Yeah, you can come here too," Lovett says to Tommy. "But this doesn't set a precedent. We're not entering a new era of manly backslaps and wrestling just because Jon's having a crisis."

And now Tommy's hugging them, too, awkwardly but sincerely, the Tommy Vietor story. 

"I'm not having a crisis," Jon protests, several beats too late to be believable.

"Sure," Lovett says, at the same time as Tommy says, "Okay." 

He has no idea how long they stay like that. Jon and Lovett are chest to chest, Tommy is hugging them both from the side, one arm round Lovett and the other around Jon. Sometime between five seconds and five years later, Tommy's hand on Lovett's back slips down so it's resting on one of Jon's. Eventually, Jon's heart stops hammering in his throat. 

"Uh," he says into Lovett's cheek. 

Lovett makes a "hmm?" noise Jon feels in his chest. Tommy squeezes Jon's hand and doesn't let go. 

"I have a thing for both of you," Jon says. It feels easier, this time. With practice, he guesses, and in the safety of their arms. The worst that can happen is he doesn't get to have sex with them. He's not going to lose them. Either of them. "And Tommy has a thing for both of us. So if you wanted--"

Lovett draws back just enough to look Jon in the face. He doesn't let go. "If you say 'thing' one more time, I'm going to get your speechwriting privileges revoked. I can do that. POTUS thinks I'm charming."

POTUS isn't wrong. 

Lovett's eyes are flicking from Jon to Tommy and back. He's frowning, not a performative frown but a small, private one, trying to work out or understand something about this that he couldn't get from Jon's words. 

Another thousand years go past. 

Then Lovett nods, takes a breath. "Yes, twist my arm, I'll have a threesome with the two most attractive men I know, sure." 

Jon feels his face doing something. 

Lovett freezes. He doesn't pull back any further, but he doesn't do anything, either, just stands there with his arms loosely around Jon, studying them both. The frown is back. 

Jon hopes he finds what he's looking for. 

And then. And then. 

And then Lovett sighs dramatically, eyes sparkling, familiar from a million times he's invited Jon in on a joke. Jon finds himself smiling automatically. 

"Fine. _Fine_. If you don't wake up tomorrow having shaken this bizarre fever dream, I suppose we can, what is it you're asking for exactly? A gay polyamorous affair in t--"

"And bisexual," Tommy interrupts.

"Gay and bisexual polyamorous affair, thank you, my bad, in the White House?"

Jon just nods. 

"No one could accuse you of half measures, Favreau." Then Lovett sighs again, the most put-upon man in the world, and leans forward to press his lips against Jon's. Tommy makes to draw back and one of them -- Jon, it's Jon -- makes a noise of protest, deep in his throat, so Tommy stays there, one arm around each of them, as Jon and Lovett kiss. 

Lovett is so fucking hot against his mouth, the slide of his lips pure sex, and Jon is weak with desire, his knees nearly buckling under the weight of this, Lovett's tongue gently brushing against his, inviting him in. 

Tommy's hand is at the small of Jon's back, steadying him, grounding him, and it's the work of a moment to break the kiss, to nudge Lovett's head to the side with his nose, until Tommy and Lovett's mouths are a fraction of an inch from touching. 

Lovett lets out this bright, happy laugh, nothing mocking about it, and says, soft and fond, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Tommy says. 

Jon has imagined a million ways it could go but he hasn't imagined this, Tommy's soft hum of satisfaction, Lovett's clever, demanding mouth, the pornographic lushness of it all, better than anything he could conjure up by himself. He didn't imagine being held close by Lovett and Tommy as they kissed, he didn't imagine how much better it would feel when it was real, when he could press his open mouth to the side of Lovett's neck and feel Lovett's reaction, the stutter of his hand on Jon's chest, the beat of his pulse. 

Lovett and Tommy's kiss deepens. Tommy makes this happy, possessive noise that goes straight to Jon's dick, and Jon feels his hand spasm slightly where Tommy is still, even now, holding it. Lovett shudders, just this unbearably fucking sexy full-body shudder, and Jon rocks his hips forward, just a bit, the tiniest motion, feels Lovett's hardness against his own. 

The kiss is over and Tommy's moving, pressing himself against Jon's back so Jon's the one sandwiched between them, Tommy's cock against his ass, fuck, he's going to burst into flames right here, Tommy's forehead resting against the back of Jon's head, his breath hot on the back of Jon's neck, and Lovett pulls Jon in for another kiss holy fuck. 

When Lovett breaks the kiss Jon sways forward, chasing the feeling of Lovett's mouth on his, but Tommy catches him, arms wrapped around him from behind now, laughingly presses a kiss to his shoulder through his shirt. 

"I feel like you're not bringing your A game to this," Lovett says, too fondly to sting. "You can be smooth. I've seen you be smooth." 

"He's had a long few weeks," Tommy answers for him. "Lots of stuff going on."

"It's hurtful, is what it is. Women up and down DC have been seduced by his boyish good looks and aw shucks charm, and what, he expects me to give it up just because he asks? And you, you're as prime a hunk of man meat as ever walked through these doors --"

"Please never say man meat again."

"-- and he doesn't even ask you. Where's your romance, Vietor? You should hold out for flowers. Serenading. A, a boom box outside of the Oval Office."

Tommy's easy laughter rumbles against Jon's back, and Jon would happily live here forever, pressed between the two of them, Lovett's gentle mockery washing over him leaving only warmth behind. 

#

Tommy naps on the couch until Jon and Lovett are done for the night, and the three of them make their way back to Jon's apartment in a horny, giddy, over-tired mess. Then Jon opens his eyes and it's morning, and he's in bed with two men he hasn't had sex with but very, very much wants to. 

He kind of tries to wake up properly, but it's a Saturday and they're both asleep and if he wakes up he's going to have to start thinking again, so he lets himself slip under, a smile on his lips. 

The next time he wakes up, Tommy's coming out the shower and Lovett is sitting crosslegged at the foot of the bed communing with a coffee. There's a full cup on the chair serving as Jon's bedside table and he drinks it gratefully. He thinks he even has a quick bathroom break in there, enough to relieve his bladder and brush his teeth.

Eventually, his brain kicks into gear enough to notice two things. 

One: He's seen Tommy get dressed hundreds of times in their life. In shared hotel rooms, in locker rooms, occasionally in the office. And not one of those times has Tommy emerged glistening from the shower, towel barely staying around his waist, and slowly and gracefully bent to tidy someone else's mess before putting his clothes on. This is Tommy putting on a show. Jon is delighted and turned on about equally -- Tommy's got _moves_. 

And two: Lovett is not enjoying the moves. Or, he is, but in glances and half-smiles, not in warm, open appreciation. He looks like he did the first time his words made it into one of POTUS's speeches. Jon understands him better than he did back then, but not well enough to make sense of this. 

And then Tommy is-- Tommy is right in Jon's space, which Jon surely would have noticed happening, but he guesses not, because there Tommy is, leaning in to kiss Jon, quick and emphatic, a statement of purpose. And then he's kissing Lovett, too, the same brief but clear action, while Jon tries to process the tingling of his lips and the catch of his breath. 

Lovett puts his coffee down on the floor where someone will definitely knock it over. He makes a noise of frustration. "I can't believe I'm saying this. But you guys know you don't have to go through with this just because you said some things last night, right? You're not, this isn't a you-break-it-you-bought-it situation. Heat of the moment, everything's very new, we've all been there, I'm not judging."

Jon looks at Tommy. Tommy looks at Jon. Jon raises his eyebrows. Tommy nods, moves Lovett's coffee to the table, and lets his towel fall to the floor. 

And Tommy is kissing Lovett, proper filmstar both hands cupping his jaw kissing, his naked body lined up against Lovett's like they were made to fit together. And Jon takes his turn, feeling the wetness of Tommy's mouth still on Lovett's lips, reveling in the way Tommy just passed Lovett to him, casual and proprietary, and Lovett let himself be passed. He puts his hands in Lovett's hair, tugs just a little, just enough to feel Lovett squirm against him. 

They trade Lovett off between them for a while, kiss for kiss, standing so close together Lovett can keep a hand on each of them, anchoring himself to them both. 

Lovett draws back. Blinks. He looks _wrecked_ , halfway to fucked out already and they haven't even started on him. He rubs at his mouth like he can't help himself. "Holy fuck."

Jon's laughing even as he's grabbing at Lovett again, drawing him back in, kissing hungrily down his neck and scrabbling at his tee. He suddenly, desperately can't wait to get Lovett naked, to get his and Tommy's hands on Lovett's skin. There's a noise of frustration Jon barely processes as coming from himself -- he just knows he _wants_ , and so does Tommy and so, unbelievably, does Lovett, and between the three of them they get Lovett's tee off him and Jon just kind of loses himself for a minute, until Lovett's laughing and pushing him back from the open-mouthed kisses he's applying to Lovett's chest. 

"Hey, hey," Lovett's saying. "You've got a lot of feelings. We get it. But Tommy's naked here, and I'm getting there. Give up the goods."

Tommy is indeed naked. Lovett is just in boxers. The two of them together look-- Jon doesn't have the words for it. Any doubt he may have had about the transition from fantasy to reality are lost in the face of this, the desire coursing through him, Lovett's smile, the heat in Tommy's eyes. He shucks his clothes in a blur, gratified by Tommy and Lovett's open appreciation, and goes to kiss Tommy again, skin against skin, the heat of it almost too much to bear. 

"Bed," someone says. 

He's grateful for all of two seconds that he changed the sheets earlier this week, and then Tommy and Lovett are on him, both of them pushing him down on the bed to mouth at his neck, his chest, the underside of his jaw. Before he knows what's happening, Lovett's on his knees between Jon's legs, looking up at him with a happy, open smile. 

"You think about this?" Lovett asks. It's teasing but not mean, another joke he's inviting Jon to share. His eyes are dark and his smile is out of this world. "You think about fucking my face?"

At Jon's side, Tommy makes a strangled noise. His hand on Jon's thigh tightens. "Just fucking suck his dick, Lovett." 

"Yeah?"

Jon is leaking precum already. He's not going to last. "Yeah," he manages. 

Lovett makes this fond, considering sound, like he's not sure what to do but he's sure it'll be fun, and then thank fuck he's going for it, taking Jon's cock in his mouth like he was made for it, hands braced on Jon's thighs, and Jon is lost in the sensation of it, in the wet heat of Lovett's mouth and Tommy's ragged breathing and Lovett and Tommy's hands pressed together on his skin. It's overwhelming in the very best way, too much for him to feel at once, and he doesn't try to hold on to it, just lets himself ride it out, his orgasm pulsing into Lovett's eager mouth as Tommy swears hot and sharp under his breath. 

"That was so. fucking. hot," Lovett says, and Jon can hear it in his voice, raw desire that's almost better than Jon's own pleasure. "Tommy, you want anything while I'm down here?"

Tommy groans and hauls Lovett up to the bed, manhandling them so Lovett's flat on his back and Tommy's over him on his hands and knees, bracketing him in "Favs. Lube?"

Jon is on it. He grabs the tube from his drawer, gets enough of it on his and Tommy's hands that between the two of them they can line Tommy and Lovett's dicks up, jerk them off together in slick, messy harmony. The angle's awkward and Jon doesn't know how long he can keep his wrist going like this, but it's worth it for the shallow stutter of Lovett's breathing, for the way Tommy's eyes are screwed shut, for the perfect fucking feel of Tommy and Lovett's dicks in his hand, for Tommy's fingers against his. 

Tommy comes first with a shout he buries in the crook of Lovett's neck. He's shaking with it, and Jon wants to draw him into a hug, but first they absolutely have to get Lovett off. The muscles in Lovett's legs are clenching and unclenching, and Jon tries to speed up, but the angle must be wrong or something, because Lovett's bringing his own hand down, holding Jon's open fist in place to thrust into it, once, twice, and fuck, Jon could die happy right here watching Lovett bite his lip as he comes. 

Orgasms do not, shockingly, magically turn Lovett into a restful and quiet cuddler, but Tommy is there for Jon to wrap himself around, and Lovett doesn't _not_ want to touch them, shifting so that his knee is leaning against where Jon's arm holds Tommy close. 

"You guys are--" Lovett starts.

"Lovett," Jon cuts him off. He grips Lovett's ankle with one hand. Lovett doesn't flinch. "In case we haven't made it clear. Date me. And Tommy. And not people who aren't me and Tommy."

Tommy mutters something into the pillow. He lifts his head up, back muscles rippling, and tries again: "Go steady with us."

Lovett laughs, bright and happy. "You know what? Sure."

###  
END  
###

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments/kudos very much appreciated. 
> 
> Normally this would be where I tell you to come say hi on twitter ([@krfabian](https://twitter.com/krfabian)) but my account is unlocked so I never talk about this fandom on there. You're welcome to come say hi anyway! :) 
> 
>  
> 
> Credit for Hillary Dogham Clinton goes to cosmic_llin.
> 
> Rejected finance dog puns:
> 
> [Dog-Frank Wall Street Reform](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dodd%E2%80%93Frank_Wall_Street_Reform_and_Consumer_Protection_Act)  
> [Dog-ima Rice Exchange](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C5%8Djima_Rice_Exchange)  
> [The Bow Wow Jones Industrial Average](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dow_Jones_Industrial_Average)  
> [NASDOG](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/NASDAQ)
> 
> Rejected dog names:
> 
> Nancy Pug-losi  
> Jerry Springer Spaniel  
> Keith Doberman  
> Harold Pointer


End file.
